The Hollow Man
by fadein
Summary: Months after the fall of Hydra, the Winter Soldier is adrift and desperate for answers. In New York, he takes a young woman hostage in hopes of using her connections to Stark Industries to regain his memory. Much to his surprise, she becomes an ally in his search for the truth of his past.
1. Prologue

**The Hollow Man**

"Every love story is a ghost story."

-David Foster Wallace, The Pale King

Prologue

On the day that SHIELD and its warships sink into the Potomac, Rosie Grant is brewing coffee for Iron Man.

"The _semi-retired_ Iron Man," Tony reminds her as he swivels around in his office chair. In his shiny silver suit and pressed white shirt, he looks as unretired as humanly possible. "And just a teensy bit more cream, please and thank you."

She adds another splash of cream and he hums with appreciation. "Not bad for a newbie. Are you sure you aren't a super secret agent planted by SHIELD to poison my beverages?"

"Mr. Stark," she says, "if I was a secret agent, I'd have better things to do than make your coffee."

He holds up a finger. "First: it's Tony. Second: I like to think SHIELD primarily exists to fetch me coffee. Fury wouldn't agree, but hey, no one really cares what he thinks."

"_Sir…"_

"Yeah?" he says to the ceiling, and then turning to Rosie, adds, "That's JARVIS, btw. You'll get used to him."

She's got a new boss who wears a flying suit and runs his very own A.I. Nope—she's pretty sure she's never getting used to this.

"_Might I recommend you turn on channel 7?_"

"Can't you see I'm busy? I'm getting my caffeine on," Tony replies. He kicks his feet up onto the desk.

"_It's urgent, sir."_

Tony sighs. "Fine, fine."

Rosie watches in fascination as a screen blinks into existence over Tony's desk, displaying footage of a fiery skyline. It takes her a long moment to put it together: the city is Washington, D.C.

Tony sits up, his face growing serious. "Oh Rogers, what _have_ you done."

"Is something wrong, Mr—uh, Tony?" she asks.

"You sure you're not a SHIELD agent?"

She looks from him to the screen. "Pretty darn sure."

"Good. Because if you were, you'd be out of job," says Tony as he rises, pushing away from the desk. "JARVIS?"

"_Yes, sir?_"

"Get the suit ready."

_"But sir, you're semi—"_

"Make it snappy. They're gonna need some help fishing bodies out of that river."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

By time he leaves the Smithsonian, night has fallen. The white, columned building glows against the black sky as he moves swiftly, silently down the steps to the street below. He hunches his shoulders, cap pulled low over his brow, the collar of his jacket turned up around his throat, firearm at his side, and always, his hands hidden away in his pockets, the cold metal curled against the fabric lining.

He walks for hours. Past colonies of vagrants huddled around fires. Past dark windows and flickering VACANT signs. Past drunks and whores, stumbling out of bars, shouting and laughing between long drags from their cigarettes. No one looks twice at him. He vanishes into crowds, into dark alleys and busy streets.

He walks for hours because he has nowhere to go. He belongs nowhere. He is nothing and no one. He has no orders, no mission, no name.

* * *

Before sunrise, he breaks into a hardware store. It is laughably easy—his mechanical arm wrenches breaks the door down in one blow. He lifts a nail file, a bottle of water, and a pile of twenties from the safe.

He hotwires a black SUV across the street and files off the VIN number. His hands seem to do these things of their own accord, as if they've been conditioned to do all sorts of tasks that his brain can't grasp.

As he settles into the driver's seat, his hands curl around the steering wheel. In theory, he knows how to drive. It can't be harder than operating a stealth fighter. And yet—he doesn't remember the last time he drove a car. There were always handlers—drivers—strike teams—entire tactical squads.

Now he is alone in the driver's seat and there is no escort.

There is only the face in the museum. The smiling face of a dead man that looks just like him. Even as he drives, he reaches into the recesses of his mind, but there is nothing—only an echo, like the hollow of rotten tree—the occasional flash of something—something—

_I had him on the ropes!_

But thinking intensifies the throbbing at the base of his skull, and the glare of the streetlights makes his vision swim, and so he drives north, then east, toward the dawn.

* * *

The Smithsonian said he was born in Brooklyn, but there's nothing familiar about New York.

He drives and drives until he happens upon an abandoned warehouse, where he stashes the salvaged tactical gear, knives, guns and RPGs. The warehouse is cold but there are huge windows—a three-sixty view of the surrounding area—and at least four points of egress.

He adds a few more stolen items to his hideout—a mattress and blanket, a dozen burner phones, a change of clothes lifted from the nearest Army surplus store.

He tries to sleep but wakes to the sound of his own screams, the blanket soaked with sweat, the metal arm having torn a hole through the mattress like it is a savage creature with a life of its own.

He heads out into the night and his feet carry him to Stark Tower, a battered but bright _A_ at its peak, a beacon at the center of the city.

Captain America has recovered from the Hydra attack. SHIELD is no more. And every clandestine agency in the western world is hunting the Winter Soldier. At least, that's what the newspapers say.

Maybe they'll find him. Maybe they won't. It doesn't matter much—a gun that won't fire is of no use to anyone.

He returns to Stark Tower the following night and parks the stolen SUV outside. In the early morning, the Captain goes for a run with his friend—the one with wings. In the afternoon, the man in the iron suit arrives, and after him, Fury's former lieutenant, whom he recognizes from his mission files. Sometimes the redheaded woman comes and goes, but her movements are too infrequent for him to predict.

The days pass by and he does nothing, speaks to no one, never sleeping for more than an hour at a time, subsisting on black coffee and jerky. It's the longest he's gone between cryofreezes and mindwipes in—well—he doesn't know how long. He can fill volumes with the things he doesn't know.

He wonders if it will all come back—the memories, the sense of time, the dead man on the museum wall.

When the memories escape him, his mind moves easily through his targets, their faces, their names, how many slugs he put into their bodies. He remembers them well, each and every one, with a strange tightness in his chest. It might be exhaustion or a poorly healed wound. It might be a byproduct of the cryofreeze. It might be regret.

It might be loneliness.

He doesn't know. He can't say. It's been too long since he's lost the words for things.

* * *

By the end of the week, he has a list of possible targets. There's a fat middle-aged man with research credentials, but he's got two kids and a Friday night poker habit. Too many people to miss him. There's the flying soldier, but the Captain will be suspicious if he skips a morning run. There's Maria Hill, but given her association with SHIELD, he strikes her off the list.

And then there is Stark's assistant, a woman in her late twenties who works long hours and lives alone on the third floor of a brownstone, with little more than a mangy cat and a poorly cared-for Smith and Wesson to her name. She's small, fragile, not particularly fast.

She'll be easy to kill, if it comes to that.

After she leaves for work, he slips in through the window and bugs the unit. The cat hisses at him as he moves soundlessly from room to room, leaving no trace behind.

Later he watches and listens from a rooftop across the street as the woman comes home in the evening. She pads around the condo, pulling her dark hair into a messy ponytail, greeting the cat with a dimpled smile. She settles into the sofa, mindlessly flipping through a magazine.

She doesn't move until the phone rings—the sound breaking their companionable silence.

* * *

"Hello?" she says, a hand ruffling the cat's ginger fur.

A moment of silence. So she tries again: "Hello?"

Then, a male voice, soft and hesitant. "Rosie?"

She starts, nearly dropping the phone. Her breath catches in her throat as she hesitates.

It's him. Of course it's him.

"Don," she finally says. "I thought we talked about this."

"Aw, com'on…"

Her lips press into a thin line. "You're not supposed to call me."

"I know but I—I miss you so much," he says, his tone strained with emotion.

She can picture his face right now. His brow is creased, his head cocked to the side, his blue eyes pleading with her.

She always was a sucker for Don's big, pretty eyes.

"Don—"

"Please, can't we just talk for awhile."

She gnaws at her lip, thinking.

"I want to hear how you're doing. How your life is going, your job, you know, the regular stuff," he adds.

She sighs. "Look, I'm tired and I don't want to talk."

"Rose, don't do this."

She braces herself. "I work for Stark Industries now, did you know that? Tony doesn't take kindly to people who threaten his employees. Who do you think helped me get the restraining order?"

Well, truth be told, that was more Pepper than Tony, but Don doesn't know that.

"God, you're such a bitch!" Don snarls. "Just 'cause I made some mistakes a while back—"

"I'm warning you," she bites out. "Don't you dare fuck with me."

"Little girl, if I wanted fuck with you, not even fucking Iron Man could stop me!"

"Go to hell, Don. And don't call me again."

She hangs up, sinking into the sofa. She pulls her cat close and takes several deep, shaky breaths.

"It's gonna be okay," she murmurs. "We'll be okay. We have each other, don't we, Perce?"

The animal purrs.

* * *

It's well past midnight when a cold breeze wafts through the window. Rosie stirs, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she sits up, gazing around.

The bedroom windows are all closed—she's quite sure of that. She installed the deadbolts herself and tripled checked them before she went to sleep several hours earlier.

And yet the room is _freezing_.

She pushes the quilt aside and climbs out of bed. She feels around for her robe, which she finds hung on the closet door, and pulls it over her pajamas.

"Percy?" she whispers, squinting into the darkness.

No sound. No movement.

From inside the closet, she pulls out her Smith and Wesson and flips off the safety. She raise the gun, gripping it hard to still the trembling in her hands, and moves slowly into the kitchen.

It looks exactly as she left it. Pristine, still smelling of Lysol. The counter scrubbed. All the dishes loaded into the dishwasher.

She breathes out. Okay, good.

But as she turns, moving into the living room, she sees something—the smallest of movements at her periphery—

From behind, a hand closes around her neck. Another seizes the gun, ripping it from her grasp.

She opens her mouth to scream but the hand around her neck moves to her mouth. The gun clatters to the floor and she is lifted—dragged across the room—deposited in a heap on the sofa.

She scrambles up to her feet but—

There's a gun in her face. And it's not her own.

She scrambles backward, as far back on the sofa as she can go. "Oh god, please don't hurt me! Take whatever you want!"

The man with the gun is hidden in shadows. As best she can tell, he's taller than average with long, dark hair. He wears black clothes and black gloves, like some kind of deadly apparition.

She'll have to stall for time, at least long enough until he steps into moonlight and she can make out his face.

"I—I have credit cards," she says, "and—and a computer—and my phone—it's in the bedroom—and—"

He holds up her phone in his other hand.

"Is there anything else you want?" she asks, because honestly, she has nothing else of value. Except maybe the Smith and Wesson, and even that's a piece of shit.

A long moment passes. He stands there, gun leveled at her, still holding her phone, not moving a millimeter.

Then, in a rough voice, "Call them."

She stares him, confused. "Um, who?"

"Your employer."

He tosses her the phone. It lands squarely in her lap.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks. A beat. The man says nothing.

Alright then, she'll have to improvise.

She dials on the phone and waits as the call goes to voicemail. _Hello, you've reached the voicemail of the one and only Tony Stark, genius engineers and world's awesomest superhero…_

"Hi, uh, Tony? It's Rosie," she says, her eyes flickering up the man in the shadows. _Please, please don't shoot me._ "I've come down with some kind of bug, so I won't be in the office tomorrow…" The man shifts slightly. "Or maybe a while. If you need anything, just call me or—or something."

She hangs up and gingerly sets the phone down.

"Okay," she breathes. "See, I'll do whatever you need me to do."

Unsurprisingly, this does nothing to move him.

She holds up both hands, palms outward. "Can I turn on the light?" The man tenses. "Just the lamp, okay?"

Rosie inches forward, toward the light. She switches it on, then looks up at the strange man.

Lank, unkempt hair hangs in his face. His expression is weirdly flat, and his eyes are rimmed with shadows so deep they look like bruises. Every inch of him, from his wide stance to the hard set of his unshaved jaw, screams _Danger! Do not approach!_

But really, it's not so different from the times when Don would back her into a corner, his face red and livid, those beautiful eyes of him burning with rage.

_Settle down, Rose. You can handle this. You aren't a threat. You're weak. You're docile. Disarming_

"Do you want to sit?" She gestures to the sofa and even throws in a smile for good measure.

He glares at her. That's a no, she supposes.

"Well, then, let's talk. What can I do for you?"

His grip on the gun relaxes, and his arm lowers. His blank expression holds fast, like a terrifying, inhuman mask.

Then, in a soft voice, barely audible, "Something was taken from me."

_Uh oh._ _He thinks I've stolen something from him._

Which is definitely not the case. She's absolutely positive she would remember this man if they had ever met before. And that, in turn, can only mean one thing. He's not just dangerous—he's crazy.

"I don't know anything about that, I promise." She injects every bit of earnestness into her voice as she possibly can. And prays to god it's enough.

"Your employer," the man replies.

_Tony. Of course it's Tony. Always pissing people off._

"Whatever he took," Rosie says, "I'm sure he'd be willing to pay for it."

"No. Stark. He…" The muscle in his jaw flexes as if he can't quite get the words out. "He's a scientist."

"Yes, that's right. Does he have something of yours?"

He blinks.

"No? Then…" she says, thinking rapidly, "do you want him to… help you get it back?"

His cold eyes are fixed on her. No response.

"Yes? Is that it?"

Finally, he nods. She finds herself nodding back. Now this—this is something she can work with. Although it would awfully nice if he could say more than two words at time. It would make this game of twenty questions they've got going a whole lot easier.

"I'll call him again—"

She reaches for the phone but his hand closes around her wrist. Reflexively, she tries to twist away but his iron grip won't give.

"Fine!" she snaps. "You don't want me to call him! You won't tell me what you want! Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"I need information," he says, and he releases her hand. She recoils, edging back into the corner of the sofa. "Passcodes. Security rotations."

She swallows hard.

So he's going to break in. And it's going to be her fault. Shit.

"You probably don't care what I think," she says, "but I think this is a really, _really_ terrible idea. There are cameras everywhere, and you can't access the stairs without clearing the retinal scanner, and the elevators? Just forget about it."

The hand with the gun twitches.

"But, like I said, I'll do whatever you want me to do, so long as you don't shoot me," she adds.

The gun rises again. His chin jerks toward the door. "Let's go."

* * *

There's something truly undignified about breaking into your workplace in dead of night while dressed slippers and a bathrobe. Tony is going to be royally pissed, Rosie decides, but if he isn't, he's going to laugh right in her face.

The man holds her close to his side as they approach the building. She leads him around back, to the private entrance, where she swipes her ID card and leans down to gaze into the retinal scanner. The scanner gives a soft _blip_ and she pushes the door open. The man follows her inside. Then, as the door clicks shut behind them, he grabs the handles and wrenches it sideways. The steel gives way with a high-pitched screech and the entire handle breaks off in his gloved hand.

The handle clatters to the floor. Rosie feels her head to start to swim as she stares at it, her heart leaping out of her chest.

_Just who the fuck is this guy? And what does he want with Tony?_

"So," she says, glancing up at his expressionless features, "I take it you've got another exit strategy?"

His dark gaze burns through her. Then he starts forward, hands closing around her waist, lifting her over his shoulder in one powerful movement as he strides toward the elevator. Nails clawing at his back, she shrieks and kicks, but he's unyielding.

The elevator doors open with a _ding_. He steps inside and unholsters his gun.

"Where is the neuroscience lab?" he asks, but of course, it's really more of a command.

"Seventeenth floor, east corridor," she says, voice strained as blood rushes to her head.

Rosie feels the corded muscles of his shoulders tense as he braces himself. A moment later, the elevator doors part, and he steps out.

The moment his foot touches the floor, an ear-splitting alarm wails through the hall. JARVIS, in his posh accent, announces, "Intruder alert. Intruder alert. Intruder alert…"

Security lights flash bright red. Blast-proof doors roll down over the glass office doors and exits. The man turns down the east corridor, unperturbed by the alarms.

When he reaches the Stark neuroscience lab, he drops her on the ground and she stumbles, grasping at the wall as she steadies herself. Meanwhile he turns to the security door, takes one step back and drives a foot into the steel frame once—twice—three times—and the steel buckles under the floor. Gripping the edge of the door, he rips it clean off the frame.

Rosie blanches as the door lands with a crash. "I am _so_ getting fired."

He motions to her to follow him across the threshold, into the center of the room. It's white, sterile environment, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a fantastic view of the city skyline. Opposite the windows, the lab is bordered by rows of monitors and exam table. The rest of the room is filled with devices, instruments, and equipment that she can't name.

The man points to the computers. "What am I looking for?" she asks.

"Files," he says, "on thought reform and…"

For a moment, his gaze drifts away, somewhere else, but then it snaps back, his pupils narrowing as he focuses on her. "Deprogramming."

She hurries over to a monitor and starts searching while he positions himself in front of the door. She inserts a drive into the computer and hits the download button. Her heart pounds and her fingers skitter over the keyboard, hands shaking so hard she can barely type.

But no one has faster, better hardware than Tony Stark, so she finds the relevant files in seconds and scrolls through, skimming the subheadings. _Coercive Persuasion, Creating Dependency, Dispensing of Existence, Dissociative States, Loyalty Double-Bind, Alienation & Indoctrination…_

_What the hell?_

But whatever this is—whatever it all means—there's no time to think about it. Because she hears an approaching roar—not jet engines, but something else.

Just as she pulls the drive from the computer, there's a sudden flash of light, the man is spinning around, and the windows are exploding.

Rosie cries out and hits the ground, shielding her face as glass rains down over the room.

From a low angle, she sees the man flip and roll as a beam of light shoots his way. She pulls herself up, turning toward the blown-out window—

It's Iron Man.

"Tony!" she screams, darting forward. The man grabs her by the waist, hauling her back into the corridor, as he fires round after round.

He drags her into an adjacent room and fires three shots—right through the window. He peers out, over the edge, a gust of window whipping up strands of his hair, and she finally puts it together.

He's going to jump. _They_ are going to jump.

"Oh no, no, no, no!" she shrieks, twisting away, but it's too late. There's fist slamming down on her temple, and her head is snapping back, ears ringing, the room tipping sideways as her vision fades out.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The first thing she notices is the pounding in her head. The pain seems to move through her veins, from the center of her skull outward, down the back of her neck, into the nerves of her shoulders.

She groans and her eyes flutter open. The world shifts into focus as she rolls over onto her side, then pushes herself up, brushing her hair out of her face as she looks around.

She's sitting on an old mattress in the middle of a huge room—some kind of drafty industrial building. The floors are gritty with dirt and sawdust, and the uncovered mattress is missing a chunk of material in the upper left corner. Bright morning light filters through the clouded windowpanes. High above, a walled-off loft is supported by crisscrossed rafters and tall columns that rise from floor to ceiling.

It takes a moment for her mind to clear as she tries recall how she got here. There was the phone call from Don—that she remembers clearly. Then, the strange man in her apartment. The private entrance to Stark Tower. The neuroscience lab. Tony in his armor. Gunfire. A seventeen-story drop. And that's where it gets a little fuzzy.

There are two possibilities, Rosie figures. If Tony has rescued her, he's dropped her off here until Stark Tower is secure. Or, if the man in black managed to survive the fall with her in tow, now that he's gotten what he wanted, he'll probably want her gone. Permanently.

Except, if that were the case, she'd probably be dead already.

The thought sends a chill up her spine. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling her robe closer. It's okay, she tells herself for the hundredth time. Everything is going to be okay. _I am going to be okay. Because I am not a victim. Because I am a survivor, and I am not afraid._

In truth, she's fucking terrified. But her therapist always said that reframing your narrative as a story of survival rather than one of victimhood could be very empowering. And right now, she really needs to feel empowered.

The pain in her head persists, but she pushes it down and gathers herself. She stands up, walking gingerly toward the rickety wooden steps that lead up toward the loft. If there's anyone else here, that's where they'll be. And if there isn't, at least she'll have a clear view of her surroundings.

When she reaches the top of the steps, she turns down a walkway and moves toward the loft door. As she passes by a grimy, dust-streaked window, she peers inside.

The man stands some ten or fifteen feet away, his face obscured by the veil of his thick hair. He seems to be moving slowly and deliberately as he rotates a shoulder, then presses that same shoulder blade with his other hand.

Rosie hurries past the window to the door, which she pushes open with one quick movement.

The man must be preoccupied, because he doesn't look up. He's in the process of shrugging off his jacket. She watches silently as he grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

Ordinarily, she would have turned away. Ordinarily, she would caught sight of his smooth, powerful torso and would have flushed and stammered as she apologized for intruding. But when she sees his extraordinary metal arm, all thoughts of apologies or embarrassment or even escape disappear.

It's sort of stunning, in a bizarre, jaw-dropping kind of way. The prosthesis is burnished and bright, and the overlapping plates shift and interlock like a highly sophisticated plate of armor. And where metal meets skin, angry scars diverge from the old wound, as if the plates were melded into flesh and bone with tremendous force.

That arm. It's familiar. She's seen it somewhere.

The man twists, angling his mechanical arm toward the light, and she notices that there's blood trickling down his ribs—from a gash just under the scapula.

She gasps. He looks up at the sound, his hair falling away from his dark, haunted eyes.

"You…" she murmurs, "I saw you on TV. You're the Winter Soldier."

The man goes still.

"You are, aren't you?" she says. The knot of anxiety in her stomach gives way as she moves into the room. He's not the enemy, and he hasn't hurt her yet. Considering she's just been kidnapped from her home in the middle of night, this seems like a major win. "Captain Rogers told me about you. He said… you weren't yourself. Not anymore."

This revelation makes his eyes sharpen. It's the first semblance of emotion she's seen on his face, and she doesn't know what that means.

"You know him?" he asks.

She takes another step toward him, tentative but calm, as one might approach a wild animal. "He said you saved his life."

At this, he glances away.

"You should have told me," she continues. "Any friend of Captain Rogers is a friend of mine."

Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a stretch. She doesn't know Steve Rogers very well, but she does know Tony, and if Tony trusts Steve and if Steve trusts the Winter Soldier, then at least that's something to build on.

"He's not a friend," says the Winter Soldier in a flat voice.

"Well, he's worried about you," Rosie replies. _Everyone's worried about you_. _Worried about what you'll do. What you are. _

Once again, she peers at the blood running down his side. Now that she looks more closely, she notices there's a shard of glass protruding from his skin. "That looks painful. I can clean it—if you want?"

The soldier touches his side, then studies the smear of blood on his fingers, staring at it like he's got no idea where it came from.

There's something not quite right about him, she realizes. It's not the tightly control violence that lingers just below the surface—she saw that the moment she met him. It's the way he looks at everything with that empty expression, as if he's a shell of a man, as if all the humanity has been carved out of him.

"Or not. It's totally up to you. I just thought I'd offer, since we're on the same side here."

His hand falls to his side and he looks up. He nods brusquely.

"Do you have any water or first aid supplies?"

He looks over to the opposite wall, where there's a stash of water bottles, clothes, and blankets.

"Um, maybe you could sit…" She glances around—gaze landing on an old desk that's been pushed to the corner of the room. "Yeah, maybe you could sit over the there."

To her surprise, he does as ordered. He looks a bit like a shy schoolboy, with his shoulders slumped and eyes cast down toward the floor. She's struck by a sudden urge to hug him, which, as she realizes a half second later, is insane. Just because he resembles a lost puppy doesn't mean he isn't still a super soldier capable of ripping her in half.

_Oh Rosie, one of these days, your love for strays is gonna get you in trouble._

When she first took Percy in, the cat bit her arm so hard, she ended up with two stitches and a rabies shot. So maybe that's the silver lining here: the likelihood of the soldier biting her is pretty slim.

She points to his shirt, which is lying in a heap up on the floor. "May I?"

Kneeling, Rosie picks it up and wraps it around her hand. She grabs a water bottle, then moves to his side, noting the way his whole body goes rigid as she approaches.

"I'm going to examine the wound, and it's probably going to hurt and bleed a lot." She holds up the hand wrapped in his shirt. "I'll try to be gentle, okay?"

This is going to take a light touch. A _very_ light touch.

So she reaches out, her fingers grazing the bare skin over his ribs, and she lets them rest there as she feels muscle and bone lift with each breath he takes. After a few long moments, he relaxes under her touch and his breathing deepens. She takes this as a cue to delicately lay her whole palm against his ribs. He tenses again, but she waits as he acclimates to the contact.

"You know what I just realized?" she tells him as she leans over to scrutinize the wound. "We haven't formally met. I guess we didn't have time for proper introductions, what with the gunfire, and breaking and entering, and all that. I'm Rosemary Grant, assistant to Tony Stark. Everyone calls me Rosie."

That fragment of glass needs to come out, she decides. "I'm going to pull out the glass. I'll do it quick but it'll hurt like a bitch."

The man nods again.

She gets hold of the edge of the fragment and pulls. The glass slips outs. He doesn't even flinch. The laceration starts to gush, and she covers it with the shirt, pressing down to stem the bleeding.

"You're probably wondering where I got my medicals skills from. Since obviously I'm not a doctor," she says offhandedly. She pours some water onto the t-shirt and dabs it on his torn flesh. "I used to get hurt a lot and sometimes I had to patch myself up. I didn't want to go to the hospital, and I managed not to for a long time, but eventually I broke a wrist, and there's not much you can do at home for a fractured wrist."

The man is quiet, though he appears to be listening. She doubts that he's interested in her boring stories but the sound of her voice was enough to sooth Percy when she first found him, a starved and scared little thing curled up on her fire escape. So maybe it will calm the Winter Soldier too.

She dampens the fabric again, this time moving to clean the skin around the wound. "When I finally did go to the hospital, the ER nurse took one look at me and guessed how it happened. See, my boyfriend had a terrible temper, which he sometimes took out on me. I don't know why I let him do that. I guess I thought I loved him."

Unwinding the shirt from her hand, she steps back and looks up at the soldier, who's watching her out of the corner of his eye. "You might need stitches, but I'm _really_ not qualified to sew you up. And you should definitely get some antiseptic in there."

"I'll heal," is his answer, as if it's a given.

"If you say so," she says, because there's no way in hell she's going to argue with him. "So, uh, should I call Tony for a ride, or what?"

The man picks up his bloodied shirt and puts it on. The shirt is still wet and cold and bloody, but he doesn't seem to care.

"I suppose I could walk," she adds. "Speaking of, where exactly are we?"

The man stalks over to the doorway. He turns, his gaze hooded, as he pulls the door. The lock slides into place with a _click_.

"Hey! Wait!" she says.

She rushes over, seizing the handle, twisting it to no avail—then desperately, violently throwing her weight against the door. She stumbles back, clutching at her arm. It's no use. The lock is secure. She can't break down the door, and she'll probably end up with one hell of a bruise on her shoulder.

So much for establishing a rapport. Chances are that no one else in the entire world knows where she is. The soldier might be the only one, and if he comes back, he may yet kill her. If he does come back, that is. He might've just left her here to die.

Her heart starts to hammer as the thought hits home.

"Please! Please, oh god, please don't leave me!" she cries as she pounds on the door. The words catch in her throat as she sinks to the floor, lungs seizing as she begins to sob.

* * *

"You were _shooting _at him?! But you—you could've killed him!" says Steve as he paces in circles, practically wearing a hole in Tony's overly expensive Persian rug.

"Look," Tony replies, with all the patience he can muster. Which, admittedly, isn't much. "I got nothing against Barnes, but he shot at me too. And when somebody shoots at me, I shoot back."

Steve runs a hand through his hair. "Is he okay? Did he seem hurt? What about his arm?"

Tony rolls his eyes. These super soldiers. Such drama queens. "Relax, Ken. Barbie's gonna be just fine."

"But what if he—"

Tony grabs Steve by the shoulder and steers him toward the sofa in the center of the office. Steve reluctantly sits. "He didn't move like he was injured. He's still super fast and strong, as far as I can tell."

"Good. That's good, I think."

"It is, especially when you hear this next part." Tony slides a file across the table to the captain.

Steve flips open the file, his brow drawing together as he skims the page. "Dissociative states?" he asks. "What is this?"

"It's the files he stole. With the help of my assistant. Which is unfortunate, because if he hasn't killed her yet, she'll probably quit after all this."

"Bucky won't hurt her. Besides, she's a smart girl. She'll be okay."

"Yes, but you're missing the point: that is, how this situation effects _me_. Do you know how many times I've had to find new assistants?"

The answer: way too many fucking times. Ever since Pepper was promoted to CEO, he can't seem to find one who's willing to stay—and who isn't working for Fury, of course.

"Whoa, back up a sec." Steve leans forward as he reads the file. "He stole this?"

Tony nods. "That's right. It's basically a scientific how-to on brainwashing."

Steve's whole face lights up. "This means he's trying to get his memories back!"

"He'll never be able to do it alone."

"Of course not," Steve says. "He'll need doctors, access to the proper equipment, probably certain drugs... Oh, right. All of which you have right here."

"Tens points to Gryffindor," says Tony. "We know he's in New York. We know he wants his memories back."

Steve tosses the file on the table and stands again, resting his hands on his hips, as he finishes the thought: "All we have to do is find him."

"And Rosie. Don't forgot about her."

"And Rosie. Because goodness knows how'll you function without her," Steve deadpans.

"The sooner we find her, the less likely she is to sue. Did I ever tell you the last one sued me?" Steve gives him a strange look. "Well, I told you I've had bad luck with my assistants."

"Do we have any leads?" Steve says, obviously not interested in Tony's staffing problems. Geez, what does a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist have to do get a little sympathy around here?

"Not exactly, but I was thinking, we should drop in on our favorite green monster. I bet he knows a thing or two about this brainwashing stuff. Whaddaya say, Steven? Wanna go on a field trip?"

* * *

The Winter Soldier returns to the warehouse hours later, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. As he ascends the stairs to the loft, he listens closely for signs of movement inside. A whisper of clothing. A shuffle of feet. But there's nothing—the air is static, hushed.

He unlocks the door and pushes into the room, stopping just beyond the threshold.

The woman is still there. She's curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Her eyes are red. Her face is streaked with tears.

It occurs to him that he should probably kill her. She's a liability. She's proof that he's still alive, that he's not dead in a ditch somewhere, as he probably should be. If the U.S. government or—worse yet—the Captain were to find her, there's no telling how quickly they'd catch his trail. Pierce would've ordered him to kill her. Pierce never liked loose ends.

And yet, he finds himself indifferent to thoughts of what Pierce would want. The man is dead, and gone with him are the directives that governed the soldier's missions.

Besides, the girl isn't a threat. She hasn't made even a single move to defend herself. It would be a waste of bullets. And she's not like his handlers at Hydra—none of them spoke to him at length. None of them talked to him like they thought he might respond. None of them had gentle hands or big eyes or soft voices.

Her hands and her eyes and her voice make him curious, but that's what is most troubling. The curiosity. It's unfamiliar, that sensation of grasping at disjointed thoughts in his head, trying to pull them together in one cohesive impression. There are too many questions, too many gaps in his knowledge of human behavior. What is her objective? What does she want from him? How will she try to use him?

And what use could she have for death? Because killing is all he can offer.

_Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century._

He was wrought to be the sharp end of Hydra's blade. It's is all he knows. It's what he was created for. He only wishes everyone else could understand that. The woman doesn't seem to get it. Neither did the man on the bridge.

The soldier drops the duffle bag on the floor, then retreats to the opposite side of the room. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waits. The woman—_Rosie_, she had said—rises slowly, her back pressed against the wall. She looks from duffle bag to him, then back at the bag.

Tugging her robe close, she lurches forward and kneels next to the bag. She unzips it, peaking inside.

"Oh," she exhales as she pulls out a few random pieces of clothing. "These are mine."

She's doing it again. That thing where she pauses, expecting an answer to fill the silence.

"Thank you. That's kind of you," she says eventually. "I thought… Well, I thought you had left me here for good. Turns out I was wrong about you."

He decides now, as her feature smooth over with relief, that maybe it's better that she doesn't understand. Human beings can't seem bear the realities of his work. When faced with the prospect of it, they break down. They scream obscenities, or they weep in fear, or they freeze, knees buckling in horror. Or, like the Captain, they refuse to believe what's right before their eyes.

"You know what I think now? I think maybe you're not as scary as you pretend to be."

Yes, this woman is a lot like the man on the bridge. He should have killed them both, but when the moment comes, he can't pull the trigger. He just doesn't _want_ to.

He pivots on one heel and moves back toward the door, leaving it wide open as he turns toward the stairs, running down them two at a time.

He hopes she hears what he can't say.

_Leave now, before I add another number to my body count. I don't have to kill you. I'm trying not to._

* * *

The woman doesn't come down for another thirty minutes. When she emerges, she's dressed in her clothes, no longer shivering. Her hands are clutched together as she descends the stairs, crossing the warehouse floor toward where he stands, slouching in a shadowed corner, beyond the reach of the bright midday sun that pours in through the windows.

She clears her throat. Her knuckles turn white.

"So. Uh, about those files you—we—stole."

He doesn't look at her. She might keep talking if he does. She's supposed to leave. Why isn't she leaving? Even the Captain ran away when given the chance.

"I had a few seconds to skim them when they were downloading and then I got to thinking, and I'm pretty sure they're all about getting your brain right after you've been… _programmed._ And that sounds like something you might be interested in."

Frustration swells in his chest as he listens to her ramble on. She still hasn't told him her objective, and he can't figure out it because she keeps talking in circles. It's like trying to decipher a language he doesn't speak.

"I don't have any personal experience with this kind of thing, but since that you're Captain Roger's friend, or he thinks of you as a friend, you should maybe consider the fact that I have connections in Stark Industries. So even though this is very possibly the worst idea I've ever had in my entire life, what I'm trying to say is… I think you need my help."

She squares her shoulders. "I want to help you."

This…

Is not what he expected.

Because it doesn't make sense. She must have a motive. An objective. A mission. Everyone does.

"Why?" he says, his voice still raw from disuse.

She shrugs. "Maybe if I help you, less people will get hurt in the process."

His mechanical hand curls into a fist, and he turns away.

"_No_," he says, falling into Russian. "_I work alone."_

But the woman pipes up again. "I know what it's like to have someone seriously fuck with your head, and I get why you'd do just about anything to undo that. At least think about it. If you change your mind—well, you know where I live."

She's halfway to the exit by the time he can get the words out.

"_Yes_," in Russian. And then, more roughly, in English, "Yes."

* * *

A huge, huge thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. You guys are the greatest. :)


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"The EXO-7?" says Tony as he pulls a face. He's stretched out on a sofa in the corner of Bruce's underground lab—a terribly dreary place with no windows or pleasant décor, just plain taupe walls and a never-ending loop of Enya playing over the sound system.

"Yeah, what of it?" Sam Wilson replies. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, pulling himself up to his full height. A not so subtle reminder that he's got several inches on Tony.

Well, Tony will let him have this one. It's easy to see how a normal human being like could get a complex about their physical stature when they spend so much time around Captain Tall, Blond, and Perfect.

Not that Tony has a complex about this stature. It's just that after a while he gets tired of craning his neck to look up at his taller counterparts. But that's nothing a good massage can't fix.

Memo to self: Ask new temp assistant to schedule a Swedish massage.

Another memo to self: Hire new temp assistant ASAP.

It's times like these that he really misses Rosie. The new temp probably won't know that Tony will only do three-hour Swedish massages with a burly lady named Hilda who uses the most lovely lavender scented oils.

Rosie knows it. Rosie is the one who originally hired Hilda, for which Tony will always be grateful.

Goddamnit, he really, really wants his assistant back.

Tony sighs theatrically. "Lemme guess: it's no longer operational."

Sam furrows his brow. "It got a little dinged up in D.C."

"That's Hammer tech for you. Shitty and unreliable." Tony offers a smug grin. "Stark Industries doesn't make products that get 'a little dinged up.'"

"Don't tell me you never destroyed an Iron Man suit."

"Do you know what it takes to destroy one of my suits? A goddamn explosion, that's what."

"Chemical weapons?"

"Puh-lease."

"How about AP shells? Because that shit will tear you up," says Sam.

"Armor-piercing bullets! That's cute," Tony replies. "It's like pelting cotton balls at a tank. The suit's made of a composite ceramics and fused with a kevlar-like polymer—my design, naturally."

Sam rubs his chin, nodding. "Dude, any chance you can work that magic on the wings?"

Oh, now there's an idea. A new side project. Pepper's not gonna like it. He already has so much going on right now, what with the whole Barnes situation, but this will make for the perfect distraction.

He can feel a big grin spreading across his face. "I might be able to throw a little something together."

Across the room, Steve enters, followed closely by Banner, who looks like he just rolled out of bed.

"Hope we didn't wake you, Doc," Tony says.

"Yeah, 'cause it's not like I need sleep to keep my blood pressure down," Bruce says, glaring at all three of them.

When Tony had suggested dropping in on Bruce, he hadn't meant, like, _immediately_. But Steve insisted they leave right away, which meant driving into the night to reach Bruce's hide-out. Tony wasn't keen on the idea, but he figured it was an opportunity to school Steve on some of the finer points of pop culture.

And it was all well and good until Tony's fifth rendition of "Wrecking Ball," at which point Steve threatened to throw Tony out of the car if he did not shut up. And it goes without saying that Tony does not want to be thrown anywhere by Captain America.

Sporting his most innocent expression, Sam holds up both hands. "I just want to point out that this was not my idea, and that I'm just here for back-up."

"Dr. Banner is not going to hulk out tonight." Steve turns to Bruce and rests a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Isn't that right?"

"I'll be _fine_," Bruce replies, shuffling over to a chair. He sits down and folds his hands over his knees. "Alright, what is it?"

"Bucky broke into Stark Tower and stole these," says Steve with no preamble as he hands Bruce the file.

"Bucky?" Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.

"The Winter Soldier," Tony says, and then as if any more explanation were needed, adds, "You know, big, scary guy with a metal arm. Also known as the long lost bro of one Captain America."

Steve gives Tony a pointed look, then turns back to Bruce. "We think he wants to get his memory back, and we need to know what his next move will be."

"Any chance you can help him?" Sam says.

Bruce pages through the file, nodding as his brow draws together. For a long moment, nobody says anything.

Finally, Bruce looks up. "Has anyone talked to Fury about this?"

"We don't work for Fury anymore," Steve says firmly.

Tony snorts. "Speak for yourself. I never worked _for_ Fury."

"My point is," Bruce says impatiently, "we have to think this through before we do anything. If Barnes can't remember his life before Hydra, then there's probably a lot of other memories he's lost."

Steve is already shaking his head. "Hydra stole his past. They stole his _mind_. I'm not gonna let that stand."

Bruce rubs his hands together, pausing a moment before he speaks. "Look, erasing someone's sense of self—that's not just behavioral engineering, that's rewriting the human brain. It's likely they used a cocktail of psychoactive drugs, sensory deprivation, electroshock therapy, and…"

"And what?" Sam asks.

"And good, old-fashioned torture," says Tony, his mouth pressing into a grim line. "Maybe he doesn't want to remember that stuff."

Tony knows the feeling all too well, but he keeps that thought to himself.

"I have to help him. I have to try," Steve declares.

"If he's experiencing depersonalization, it could get worse," says Bruce. "Look, I'm not saying the old memories can't be dug up—I'm saying you might not like what you find."

"He would do the same for me," Steve says. "He always had my back. Now it's my turn to have his."

Bruce sighs. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Dr. Banner, you can give Sam a list of the items you'll need," Steve tells Bruce. Then, turning to Sam, "Think you can handle that?"

"Sure thing, Cap," says Sam with a mock salute.

"And Tony…" Steve sits up, his back ramrod straight. "I need to see everything you have on Rosie Grant."

"She has excellent taste in massage therapists," says Tony with a big grin. When Steve glares at him, he adds with feigned seriousness, "Shall I have JARVIS pull the files?"

"Yes, thanks, Tony."

Tony makes a clucking noise as he reaches over and squeezes Steve's massive shoulder. "But really, you're too tense. I've _got_ to get you an appointment with Hilda."

* * *

In the passenger seat, Rosie kicks off her shoes and reclines, tucking her feet underneath her. The engine drones on as the lights of oncoming cars fly by.

The Winter Soldier grips the wheel with his bionic hand. Once every few minutes, his eyes flicker up to the rear-view mirror and sharp angle of his jaw will grow tense for a second, but he says nothing and does nothing to acknowledge Rosie.

It's a little awkward, but then, Rosie has always been a talker. And this man is clearly not.

It takes Rosie a while to muster up the courage to speak, and when she does, the words come out soft and timid.

"There's something I've been wondering."

The soldier stares straight ahead, but she notices that the muscle in his jaw flexes once again. That's got to mean something. Maybe she's starting to pick up on his cues. Maybe she's starting to read him.

Maybe.

"I don't know your name. Steve calls you Bucky, but that's probably a nickname, right?"

He actually turns to look at her. His expression is as cold as ever, but she counts this as progress.

"I don't… have one," he rasps as he looks back at the road.

_But everyone has a name,_ is what she wants to say. Except that the Winter Soldier is not like everyone else. So instead, she says, "Oh. I see."

And to her astonishment, he adds, "They called me the Winter Soldier."

The pervasive, omnipresent _they_. No doubt he means Hydra and Pierce, the ones who kept him on ice.

_When they erased his memory, they never gave him a name_, she realizes. Because names are about autonomy and self-expression, neither of which he seems comfortable with.

Neither of which would be encouraged by a fascist organization in pursuit of world domination.

"What do you call yourself?" she says eventually.

The soldier turns to her again. A look of utter confusion flits across his face.

"I don't."

"But you must—" She bites back the words when it hits her. He doesn't call himself anything. He doesn't think of himself at all. It's the saddest thing she's ever heard.

She has to swallow deeply, several times, before she can speak again. "Then I guess you get to decide what your name is."

He steers into a parking garage, coming to an abrupt stop in the first open space. He switches off the car. Rosie unbuckles her seatbelt, ready to step out of the car, but he doesn't open the door.

They sit in silence for a moment, until he says, "They said my name was James."

"James," she replies lightly, testing it out. "It's a nice name. Is it alright if I call you that?"

"I…" He doesn't move a muscle. "Yes."

"Well, James, I think we're here." She points outside the window.

They both climb out of the car and she follows her through the garage to an elevator marked _Raymond & Isley Financial Corp._ As they step inside, he punches the "down" button. The elevator drops down, much longer and further than she expects, until finally the doors open and he walks out.

She hurries after him as he approaches a set of metal double doors. Over their heads, long fluorescent lights flicker; a small camera next to door stares down at them.

"Stay," he orders, and then unholsters a semi-automatic handgun, pivoting through the doors in one fluid motion.

She knows she should do as he says, but the thing is, her life has turned upside down in the last twenty-four hours and she has had it up to _here_ with being ordered around.

She slips through the doors, letting them slide shut behind her, as she steps into a long corridor. A few feet ahead, the Winter Soldier—_James_, she reminds herself—spins around.

She crosses the distance between them, and his blue eyes darken with—irritation? displeasure? She's not sure, but it's probably not good.

"This place is creepy," she says with a shrug. "I'll be safer with you. Unless you're still planning to shoot me."

A beat. He stares at her—again.

Rosie laughs awkwardly. "Er, you're not, right? Planning to shoot me? Because I want to help you, remember? I'm Team Winter Soldier now."

There's a flash of movement as his metal hand reaches for something. She takes a hasty step backward but pauses when she sees what's in his hand.

It's a knife. A huge, wickedly sharp one.

He flips it, catching it by the blade, and holds out the handle.

"Thank you," she says, and then, with a half smile, "I'll try to not to stab myself."

She takes it by the handle, feeling the weight and balance of it, as he heads down the hall.

He reaches a second set of doors. His finger curls around the trigger of his gun, and he taps in a code at the keypad next to the entrance. She hustles up behind him as he raises the weapon and barrels through the doors.

It's some kind of back storeroom, maze of stacked boxes, old equipment, bisected by a loading ramp and a set up stairs.

But Rosie barely has time to take in her surroundings when the soldier grabs her by the wrist.

He thrusts her behind a row of boxes as he fires off four staccato shots.

She drops to the ground, clutching at the boxes, the knife clattering to the floor as her start to ring. He fires two more shots, and a scream tears from her throat.

A beat later, his feet round the boxes and appear right in front of her. She looks up.

He's staring down at her, gun held loosely at his side.

"Come on." He presses the knife into one of her hands, then grabs her other arm and hauls her up.

He drags her toward the stairs, and they pass through the room, she spots a stream of blood, flowing out from behind a cart piled high with office supplies…

It's a dead body. Dressed in a security guard uniform. One bullet in the head, another in the chest.

There's more blood pooling next the stairs. A second body, two bullet holes. Head and chest.

And a third body at the top of the steps.

Her stomach lurches. Bile burns the back of her throat. The room starts to spin, but the soldier pulls her onward, as fast as humanly possible, past the bodies, up the stairs, and through another set of doors.

Finally, he releases her wrist. She sags against the wall. "Those men… they… they're bleeding and you…"

"They're dead," he says with no emotion.

"But why…?"

Of course, the soldier doesn't answer. He just moves forward, cutting through a labyrinth of cubicles as she pulls herself up, running after him once again.

"You can't just—just kill people!" she says desperately.

When he doesn't answer, she cries, "James!"

This makes him stop in his tracks.

"You can't. It's—it's inhuman," she tries again.

"Yes," he says, as if it's nothing.

One moment he is kind. The next, he is lethal. She can't figure out if she should trust him or kill him.

Her fingers clutch the knife he gave her, and for a split second, she wonders what would happen if she tried to stop him. She'd never succeed—he's too strong, too fast—but she worries that she's a coward for not trying.

Like she was with Don, at least until the very end.

But there's no time to dwell on that, because the soldier is leading her into another area of the building: the floor of a bank. It's an old, by the looks of it. The marble floor hasn't be polished in ages. The teller counter is covered with dust and lined with a row of outdated computers.

He pushes past the teller counter, into a back room. He stops at the entrance of the bank vault. It's a giant steel door with numerous bolts, and it appears to be locked tighter than Fort Knox itself.

She has no idea how he's going to open it, but she knows the door doesn't stand a chance.

He takes hold of the wheel and wrenches it in a counter-clockwise direction. One by one, the tumblers disconnect.

Stepping back, he aims at one of the hinges. He shoots it—once—twice—three times—then aims at the next hinge and does the same.

By the time he's finished, the rim of the vault door is riddled with bullet holes.

He grips the edge of the door with his fingertips. His mechanical arm locks into place with a _clink_.

And then he heaves. The steel gives a high-pitched squeal.

The door actually _bends_ open.

He keeps pulling until there's a space wide enough for them to step through.

He glances at her for the briefest moment, and then he climbs into the vault.

* * *

This, at least, he remembers.

The cold, dry air. The stale, low-watt lights. The six-legged symbol etched into the ceiling. The monstrous leather chair in the center of the floor.

And the two scientists cowering behind the chair. He doesn't know the names, but he does recognize their faces. The younger one is a woman, maybe in her forties, and the older one is gray-haired man in his sixties. Panic has immobilized the man, who gapes at the soldier. The woman is openly weeping.

Behind him, the girl—Rosie—gasps.

"Is that…? And those guards… why didn't you tell me?" She's looking up at the ceiling, her mouth hanging open as she points to the Hydra insignia.

"Yes," he says and notes the way her grip on the knife loosens.

She points to the two scientists. "And them? Are they Hydra?"

"We—we're not!" says the female scientist between whimpers.

Rosie's lip curls with disdain as she turns toward the other woman. It's not an expression the soldier expected to see on her face. Fear, perhaps. Or surprise. Or even concern.

"Bullshit," Rosie snaps. "This is a Hydra facility. And you've locked yourself away because you're afraid of the big, bad wolf."

"I swear, we're not Hydra!" the scientist splutters.

Rosie turns back to him. "Well, James, are they?"

The sound of the name strikes something hard in his chest. His name. _Your name._

His mouth goes dry as he realizes he ought to answer his question. He could lie for them. Perhaps they even expect him to lie. But loyalty isn't part of his programming.

Neither is mercy.

"Yes." His eyes shift from her to the scientists.

Mention of the soldier's name seems to have broken the male scientist out of his trance. "James?" he murmurs. "You—you can't do this!"

"Yeah, his name is James. Not that you ever bothered to care." She advances on the scientists, raising her knife, spitting out, "You cowards. You monsters. You bunch of traitors. You know how many people died in the attack in D.C.? Do you?"

The woman whimpers and the man blanches.

"Four hundred thirty-eight. That's how many loyal SHIELD agents died that day. Not that you give a shit." She jerks a thumb in the soldier's direction. "You think he's scary? I work for Iron Man, and let me tell you, the Avengers would _love_ to get their hands on you. Do you have any idea what Natasha Romanov would do to you? Oh, I would pay to see that."

The soldier cants his head to the side. Now this is interesting. A woman who shudders at the sight of blood but has no pity for the humans in front of her.

Staring straight at the scientists, she says, "Are you going to kill them?"

"After they talk," he murmurs.

"Good." She nods, hands on her hips. "I don't want to watch, but I'll tell you what—if it were me, I'd put them in that chair. And I would make it sure hurt. A lot."

"Thank you," he says, the word slipping out before he can stop it. He doesn't know why—it's only think he can think of.

"You're welcome."

She turns back toward the hall, climbing out through mangled vault door, as he grabs the female scientist by throat and slams her into the chair.

It doesn't take long for the screams to begin.


End file.
